


Right Before Your Eyes (I'm Changing)

by poisontaster



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-30
Updated: 2006-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-03 03:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5274620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wishes Jensen would stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right Before Your Eyes (I'm Changing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quietdiscerning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietdiscerning/gifts).



Jared's mostly asleep, warm, comfortable and boneless, but he wakes up when Jensen climbs from the bed and pads into the bathroom. It's an effort not to stiffen up, to keep feigning the relaxed drowsiness he felt a moment before. Not, he guesses, that it would make a lot of difference. This is how it always goes.

It's such a small thing, really. Or so he likes to tell himself in moments like this. Such a _stupid_ thing. Not big enough to be a stumbling block. Not enough for him to stop—stop having Jensen under him, hands and knees or face to face and spread wide, stop taking Jensen into him, Jensen's fingers shoved into his mouth and both of them laughing because Jared can _not_ be quiet no matter how he tries. He doesn't _want_ to stop, no matter how weird-awkward it was in the beginning, or can still sometimes be, even now.

He just wishes Jen would stay.

Just once.

Maybe it's a girl thing; Jared's eyeballed but never played for the other team before, though everyone knows Jared Padalecki is a quick study. Maybe it's not something that men that fuck do; it's not like he'd know the difference. His conversations with Jeff or Rosey or any of his other friends have never covered the logistics of sleeping over.

Or maybe it's just Jensen.

Jared sometimes feels a certain amount of amazement that Jensen ever unlocked himself enough for them to hook up at all, let alone keep it together for close to a year.

"Jen's all surface tension," Allie Mack—said to him one night out at the bar, when she'd possibly had a few too many appletinis. He must have given her a look, because she swatted him irritably on the arm, scowled and said, "No; _look_." She poured her current appletini into the as-yet uncleared glass from her previous one and then back again, sloshing liquor and curly bits lime rind onto the table. "See? S'liquid, right? It _flows_. Takes up the shape of whatever its in. But what holds it _together_ is surface tension. Like a skin."

And then she'd hiccupped, blinked, and gone blithely back to discussing about various shirts he'd worn (especially the vintage ones) and how pink really _was_ his color, which is where the conversation had started, curiously enough.

Jared thought that was actually as pretty fucking profound an explanation of Jensen as he'd ever heard, especially for someone as drunk off her ass as Allie at that moment.

Of course, he was pretty sauced himself at the time and tingly-stupid from Jensen manhandling him into the back, near the emergency exit, and then sucking him off until Jared damn near died from the effort to not howl out loud.

So he might be kind of biased.

Jared sighs and untucks his arm from his side, lets his legs fall wide and his body spread out. The one good side of Jensen not spending the night (ever), he guesses, is that he can sprawl as much and wide as he wants and no ones going to bitch and tell him no.

But still…

"Hey." Jensen's whisper seems loud in the stillness, coming, as it does, from the other side of the bed. Jared's eyes flinch tighter shut, wondering if he can just play possum and avoid the poutiness that he despises in himself but feels coming on anyway. He's got no _reason_ to feel this disappointment. He's screwing Jensen fucking Ackles, Mr. Sex-On-Bow-Legs himself. That should be enough, right? "Push over."

Jared stiffens and then sheer surprise has got him scooting back toward the rear edge of the bed as Jensen crowds in next to him, all warm, naked limbs and cold fucking feet. Jared shivers as they unerringly find his calves. "My contacts were _killing_ me," Jensen says, humping over and over some more until he's snuggled up against Jared's side. Jared doesn't know what the hell to do, how to react.

Jensen threads his hand through Jared's hair, different from the almost savage way he'd yanked on the strands when Jared was blowing him. Jared's totally confused as to which he likes more, goose bumps spreading down his skin in waves.

"Hey," Jensen says again. Through slitted eyes, Jared watches Jen's face come closer until it blurs into a freckled blob and Jensen's mouth is on his, kissing, coaxing, heated and soft. "Don't tell me you actually fell asleep."

Jared makes a little noncommittal sighing noise because—as noted before—he doesn't know how to be quiet when it comes to Jensen. Jensen's hand feathers rough-gentle over Jared's naked shoulder, his bicep, down the flatness of his belly—more goose bumps—and up to palm his hip.

Jensen nips Jared's lip sharply, startling Jared's eyes open all the way and Jensen grins. "C'mon, man. I got that oak tree against my thigh and I'm supposed to think you're really passed out?" Jensen asks. "Your acting fu is _weak_ , my brother."

"Fuck you," Jared says, but it's totally punk. He's grinning back, even though he doesn't know what this means, if it means anything, and he's really confused. Jensen just sort of brings that out in him; happy and puzzled, all the fucking time. He wonders if that's ever going to stop.

"That was the idea," Jensen agrees, taking two of Jared's fingers in his and guiding them around to where he's still hot and slick and sort of open. It's a gentle push in and then Jensen's hissing and arching like a cat, one leg finding its way over Jared's hip to hook him closer. "We got all night, right?"

Jared's more than a little distracted by Jensen pulsing around his fingers, the idle hump of Jen's hips against his belly and groin, but he manages to breathe, "Yeah. Maybe the morning too, if you think you got the stamina."

Jensen's fingernails scratch shallowly at Jared's pecs, his neck arches back. "Oh," Jensen says, "stamina I got. C'mon, Padalecki, bring it."

"Oh," Jared says, burying his face in the suede-rough skin where Jensen's neck meets his jaw and biting down, "you asked for it now, Ackles."

Jensen pulls back a second, his fingers tight on Jared's shoulders and a look on his face that Jared sees all the time and doesn't know how to read any better today than the first time he saw it. "Yeah," Jensen says, low and graveled. "I did. I asked. And don't you forget it."

The moment's over fast, because Jensen doesn't do chick-flick any more than Dean does, but a moment is all it takes to pass between them: message sent-message received. "You're so fucked," Jared growls and he means it to be menacing, but he thinks it comes out the other way.

"Yeah, so are we both," Jensen says and rolls over on his stomach. "Would you get on with it already?"

And so Jared does.


End file.
